


First Draft, Last Nerve

by akittyisyou



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AUTHOR AU, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akittyisyou/pseuds/akittyisyou
Summary: Fury Press's days are numbered, and in-house illustrator Steve Rogers might soon find himself out of a job. Luckily, billionaire playboy philanthropist Tony Stark has just signed a deal with them for his first novel, a surefire hit based on his media presence alone... except... it's the worst thing ever written. It seems as though Steve is the only person in the world who doesn't know who Tony Stark is, and it's hate at first sight when Tony is completely unwilling to work with them to edit the book into something that won't sell solely on cringe value.With his work family's jobs on the line, Steve needs to swallow his temper and find common ground.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	First Draft, Last Nerve

They’d been without coffee, sugar and creamer in the Fury Press offices for more than a month now. Every single one of them complained about it, but there was no money in petty cash and after the most recent round of cuts, most of the staff left standing didn’t have five cents spare for communal coffee.

The publisher had been too slow to move toward digital platforms and too small to push themselves forward with the next big hit in adult fiction, and most of the staff who hadn’t fled to bigger companies had already been made redundant.

Steve was the first to crack in the end; he wasn’t much of a talker in the office, but even he was being crushed under the weight of the death march atmosphere in the company.

“Morning,” Natasha greeted, glancing at the plastic bag in his hand as he passed her desk, “another protein powder delivery?”

“No,” said Steve, “I just figured we could use a morale boost.”

“ _Mr Rogers,”_ she drawled, dryly, “are you spoiling us?”

“Do you consider green tea spoiling you?”

“Yes,” she said, “it’s more than anyone else got me this year.”

He glanced sympathetically back at her as he moved toward the kitchenette. “Want me to make you one?”

“Thanks, I need something to get me through this meeting,” she sighed.

“That sounds positive.”

Natasha’s mouth drew into a thin line. “We got a book deal.”

“We _got_ a book deal?” Steve asked, “aren’t we supposed to be _giving out_ the book deals?”

“Not this time,” grumbled Natasha.

As Steve approached with the tea, Natasha slumped back in her seat. She might have had a grim sense of humour, but she was very rarely an actual pessimist, and seeing her actually look miserable rang alarm bells in Steve’s mind. He pulled Coulson’s wheely chair up beside her desk, and nudged aside a stack of printed manuscripts.

“Okay, tell me,” he prompted.

“Some rich guy can’t find a publisher for his self-insert fan fiction,” Natasha grumbled. “Nick didn’t go into details, but he might be buying us out, or he might be making us an offer we can’t refuse so we’ll publish the thing.”

“Nick wouldn’t sell,” said Steve.

“Nick has mouths to feed,” Natasha reminded him.

“So we put out a bad book, so what?” Steve reasoned, “it gets forgotten and we buy some time to persuade Nick to …get us on the kindle or … podcast our books-”

“Stop,” said Natasha, with the ghost of a smile, “please don’t ever say ‘the kindle’ again.”

“Okay, but ‘podcast our books’ was fine,” said Steve.

“It was the lesser of two evils,” said Natasha, “you know who hates technology as much as you do? My friend Emily-”

“No,” said Steve, “stop. I’m _happily_ single.”

“So is she!” Natasha said, “you have so much in common.”

“I’m going to go do some work now,” Steve said.

As the office began to fill for the day, he kept his head down, taking a few notes on the well-thumbed manuscript he’d been given and setting to work on sketching out the concept for the cover of their next release. There were mutters of appreciation from the kitchenette as one-by-one, the others discovered the coffee. As the chatter turned to gossip, Steve put on his headphones, letting Duke Ellington drown out the office talk.

When he’d started with Fury Press as an illustrator, he’d had time for a creative process - to flick through the story for something that grabbed him, sketch concepts and work with the writer to pick a final fully illustrated front cover. These days, however, as their audience dwindled to large print romance, it was mostly checking hair colour and setting, and picking the right stock photo, because that was what sold.

Steve probably should have jumped ship when he had the chance, but found family was still family.

It was an hour before the small crowd at the kitchenette broke up and headed back to their desks. Natasha made pointed eye contact with him as he passed, nodding back toward the door, where her dreaded new writer had made a late appearance.

Tony Stark was short (though most people were shorter than Steve) with dark hair and a well tailored suit that he seemed to be wearing as sloppily as possible. His beard was short and meticulous, framing thin lips and a smile that showed just enough canine tooth to look almost feral.

Steve watched him over the top of his laptop screen as he crossed the office, flanked on either side by a husky bodyguard and an ethereal looking PA.

“Is that _Tony Stark?”_ said Clint, loud and disapproving enough to be heard over Steve’s music. Steve glanced quickly back down at his work, so as not to be caught staring, but Stark was wearing sunglasses indoors so the chances of him even noticing Steve were slim.

“Who’s Tony Stark?” He asked.

“The Apprentice guy,” said Clint, “you know, ‘ _you’re fired’?”_

Steve just shook his head.

  
“Look him up, he’s huge,” Clint gave up.

Steve glanced at Natasha, in silent askance, but she just shrugged.

“That’s my cue,” she sighed, and rose to follow him into Fury’s office. Clint, realising he had no audience here, went back to reading.

Steve watched the door close, and turned his eyes back to his computer screen, pulling up Google to type a quick _Tony Stark Apprentice_ into the search bar. The first two results, unsurprisingly, were wikipedia articles for Tony Stark and The Apprentice (American TV series); apparently he had been missing out on something big, but in his defence he hated reality TV.

_Anthony Edward Stark_ , said the first link, _(born May 29th 1985) is a business magnate and media personality. In 2005, he started what would become his largest business venture, advanced technology corporation Stark Industries. He appears in the NBC TV series_ The Apprentice _, which has been broadcast annually since 2012. According to the_ Sunday Times _Rich List, Stark became a billionaire in 2018. In 2019, his fortune was estimated at $1.6 billion, ranking him as the 95th wealthiest person in the United States._

What was a big name like that doing selling their book to a failing publishing house like Fury Press? Steve hadn’t seen a single project that wasn’t a Harlequin reject or a poor Twilight imitation in years, and Tony Stark could probably self publish and buy his way into distribution for far less than whatever he was buying Fury’s dignity for.

He scanned the Wikipedia page idly, pausing at the Controversies tab. Nobody got that rich and kept their nose clean. Stark didn’t seem to be the exception to the rule, with a lifetime ban from not one, but two hotel chains after multiple rockstar style parties caused enough damage that paying for it just wasn’t good enough.

Steve couldn’t imagine having the _time,_ never mind the motivation.

“Looking up our local celebrity?” Coulson asked, casually, as he passed.

“I thought he’d be taller,” said Steve, rather than get Clint going again.

“He’s definitely got lifts in his shoes,” said Coulson. “The man’s a walking Napoleon complex.”

“Are you disappointed he’s Natasha’s problem?”

“Oh, infinitely,” said Coulson, sarcasm almost undetectable.

Steve glanced toward Fury’s office to see how things were going, but both Natasha and Fury had their backs to the glass. Stark’s staff were well behaved, either stoic and silent, or taking notes, but Stark himself was animated. He sat tilted back in his chair, with his feet up on Fury’s desk.

“He must be worth a lot of money for Fury to let him swing his balls around his office like that,” Clint observed.

“It’s Stark’s office right now,” said Coulson. “Maybe permanently.”

“Did you hear something about that?” Clint said, but Coulson just shrugged.

The meeting went on for most of the day, and when Natasha was finally free to go, she clearly didn’t have an inch of patience for any of them. She made herself another tea and sat down behind her screen as Fury walked Stark out.

Both Clint and Coulson tried their best to check in with her (and subtly dig for gossip) but she shut both of them down. Steve, who knew better, let the dust settle.

It was raining outside as the work day ended, faster than the clogged gutters could drain it. Steve took the first step off the stoop in front of the office, and immediately felt the filthy water soak straight through his shoes and socks.

Just another day in paradise, he grumbled to himself. He pulled his hood up - uselessly, he knew. It would soak through in minutes.

“Hey,” called a voice further along the curb. “Rocky Horror!”

Steve looked, wondering what unlucky sucker was getting abuse, and found to his surprise that it was _him_. Tony Stark was standing under an umbrella beside his car, sunglasses turned in his direction.

“Haven’t seen it,” he said, “but my name’s Steve Rogers.”

“Right, right,” said Stark. “You’ve _never_ seen Rocky Horror?”

“No, but I get the feeling that if I did, I might be offended right now,” said Steve. He was getting wetter by the second, not that it mattered; home was still a half hour walk.

Stark pushed his sunglasses down his nose. His eyes were brown and shark-like. If Steve hadn’t already formed an opinion of him, it would be set in stone now.

“Where are you headed?”

“Columbia St,” said Steve, “I live in Brooklyn.”

“Too bad, we’re headed the other way or I’d offer you a ride,” said Stark, “catch you later, Malibu Ken.”

“ _Steve_ ,” said Steve, but the slam of the car door was louder than his voice. Stark's driver shot him a brief, sheepish look as he folded the umbrella he’d been holding and got in.

Steve had a temper at the best of times, but something about Tony Stark had managed to push every single one of his buttons in the space of two minutes. He watched the car speed down the street, sending a small wave of gutter water across the pavement, and felt his jaw clench.

After holding him up in the open and getting him soaked, Stark _had_ actually left in a Brooklyn-bound direction.

He _simmered_ all the way home.

Fall was giving way to winter, and the dark evenings were starting to roll in earlier. It was dark by the time Steve let himself into his cubby little sixth floor studio apartment. He crouched in the low light of the lamp by the door, and waited. It took his elderly German Shepherd a minute to muster the energy, but he stiffly rose from his bed by the window and padded across the floor, tail wagging with the sway of his body.

“Tell me all about your day,” Steve said, scratching under the dog’s chin as soon as it settled on his knee. “Anything good on the radio?”

The dog sighed, more in contentment than as an actual response.

“Is that right? Well, my day sucked…” he muttered.

It was eight before he settled in for the evening, curling up on the sofa with yesterday’s leftover chilli and a waterproof blanket for the dog to sit up beside him. He was ten years late, but had been working through his first viewing of The Office over the past few weeks.

His phone chimed with a text.

_“Steve, it’s_ ** _so_** _bad,”_ Natasha messaged.

At least someone else was having a bad day. “ _What is?”_

_“Stark’s manuscript,”_ Natasha wrote. _“I can’t edit this. You can wash a pig, it’s still a pig.”_

Steve snorted. “ _What is it, even?”_

_“A masturbatory self insert Manhattan urban fantasy. You’ll never guess what the main character is called.”_

_“Tony Stark?”_ Steve suggested.

**_“Tori Sparks,”_** Natasha replied immediately.

_No,_ Steve had to smile out of pure schadenfreude. “ _Is she an asshole TV millionaire?”_

_“I’ll send you the manuscript. Obviously you can’t share it with anyone,”_ Natasha replied.

_“Obviously,”_ Steve started to reply, but the manuscript had already landed in his inbox. The filename alone was promising: Tori Sparks - Iron Heart v4.rtf. He sunk lower into the sofa as he opened it, and after a few moments of scanning the first few lines, had to look away.

_“Ugh_ ** _,”_** he typed to Natasha. “ _I’m going to get a beer.”_

_“I’m already drinking vodka,”_ Natasha replied. “ _Let’s make a night of it.”_

He moved the dog’s chin from his knee and took a beer from the fridge, pressing the lid to the side of the counter top to pop it off. He sat heavily back down on the sofa, and took a deep breath as he opened his laptop and pulled the file up from there.

> _“Tori’s gaze started at the bottom of the mirror. She was short and slender despite the lack of exercise, with puppy fat still lingering in her thighs and hips though she was past the cusp of eighteen. Her breasts were puppies too, small and eager, nipples licking the inside of her silk blouse.”_

Steve had to stop again, burning cheeks pressing into his cold hands.

> _“She met her pumpkin spice latte eyes in the mirror, and practiced her smile. No-one could know how completely out of her comfort zone she was. The kind of men she was meeting this afternoon were like sharks; they could smell blood in the water, and she’d felt like an open wound for years.”_

_“Are you reading it?”_ Natasha texted, dissatisfied with five minutes of silence.

_“Where is this is even going?”_ Steve answered. “ _I’m not reading any more.”_

_“Please,”_ Natasha replied, and when he didn’t reply for another ten minutes, followed it with a screenshot of another particularly terrible paragraph.

> _“Tori sighed, and reached her hand up under her shirt. The uniform had no pockets, so she’d resorted to having to keep her notepad and pen under her inconveniently perky breasts.”_

“Good night, Natasha,” Steve messaged, and set his phone to silent before tossing it across the couch.

His reprieve from Tony Stark was brief.

Far too brief.


End file.
